Umm. I woke up dreaming of two things simultaneously. One of them was nice juicy bacon. The other one? Shan't tell. I am the heart of discretion, and protect the identity of imaginary people. Truth be told, I don't think she had a name, unlike the bacon, which according to its business card is called "Apple Smoke".
I am on a first name basis with pork products.
One of my best friends is 'Pepper Rind'.
A man can have as much bacon as he wants in this world. Which is a good thing. It alleviates loneliness and extends comfort during the dark of night.
Bacon will never let you down.
It will listen to all your personal anecdotes.
Bacon and I have a meaningful and profound relationship.
If a woman wants to land me, she needs to be better than bacon.
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A QUESTION OF LIFE STYLE
My apartment mate, who has an almost clinical interest in certain things, was sharing details about cyst sacs from her side of the table on ...
3 comments:
Hoiche BotH,
Salutements after an extended tide of absence! We have just returned from our viage through the Orient, and we bring upon you tidings of our latest tale. Sadly, though there be not mention of bacon, other foodstuffs invoking similar emotions shall be in mention.
The premiere iteration of our journey found us in the Islets of Lewchew, in which were encountered unto us a band of Iudaean persuasion. They invited us to their local fete, of which they appellated Pirum. As they knew we were well-traveled, they inquired of us of which sages had we gained acquaintance. Being not short of admirers of yours, as such we made mention of yourself. It had appeared that knowledge of your learned word had reached the archipeligians, such that they had rendered your wisdom in the form of a chantion:
I wanna wake up, In a city that doesn't sleep
And find I'm back of the hill, top of the heap.
Truly, such is the song of ages.
Songbirds!
After taking of their sundries, we departed to the Asiatic Steppes, former domicile of the Great Khan. Equine delicacies were always a favorite of ours, and we were treated upon arrival to Caballus Tartare, or as it is claimed locally, "Khram of Horse". Its crude appellation belies a tender saveur that is sure to placate the most discerning of Altaic gourmands. We had previously heard that this "Khram of Horse" dish was only to be served upon the occasion of the "Day of Deliverance from the Seas", and we inquired suchly. Our hosts, direct descendants of Temujin hisself, who had been heretofore gracious to us with their trademark hospitalitude, simply stared at us in silent bemusement, if not amusement. Looking upon us as if we were daft, they kindly informed us of the parallel celebration of Goryo, instructed us to direct our queries there, then briskly escorted us from the yurt.
In hindsight, it was perhaps indeed unlearned of us not to realise that Outer Mongolia was landlocked. 'Twas but a simple misunderstanding that can perhaps be corrected next April.
Heeding our hosts' instructions, we arranged for our visae to enter the reclusive Hermit Kingdom of Choson. After some elbow-wheeling whose details shan't be mentioned here, we were able to obtain a special entry from the Chief Rabbin of Pyongyang himself. Upon a quasi-difficult journey into the Kingdom, he greeted us personally, along with his Aishes Khail. Upon this we found that the Chief Rabbin was none other than His Majesty the Right and Gracious of the house of Juche! Among the many titles he holds are Grand Imam of the Islamic Caliphate of Goryo, the Cardinal of the Choson Archdiocaese, and Guru Sahib of the Pyongyang Sikhii.
Surely, none could surpass his multiple beatitudes.
Namaste.
There, His Majesty treated us to his special paschal service in his capacity as Chief Rabbin. O, we counted away the hours of wisdom which he showered upon us, until we were treated rightly to essens of lamb and horseradish. We queried of him the whereabouts of the similar horse and lambradish cours, but His Majesty's guards turned their armaments on us. Pursuing that line no longer, we allowed slumber to claim us.
(continued...)
It would not have occurred to our imaginations that we would actually be spending the Day of Deliverance from the Sea right in the mouth of its danger, for on the eve we had beached on the shores of Old Sai Gon in former Cochinchine, now under permanent Annamese administration. O Fortuna was surely beaming upon us, for we were immediately recognized for the customary horse and lambradish which we had brandished. Ebraeans! We greeted them, "What Ho!" Though we were quickly reprimanded not to use that name around those parts, may it be erased. To the contrary, one should mention the name of Alexandre Dumas frequently, as the denizens were fond of mentioning his supernom with gusto.
Dumas, Dumas!
(Nay, perish that vulgar thought. The S is silent, per the regules of Frenchois.)
Our rescuers treated us to the Day of Deliverance Banquet Service, grateful for the deliverance of obligatory spiced cheval. Without it, they informed us, they had naught chance but to resort to the only thing available, which they termed (diacritics inclusive) as "xéc cô bá bit tộ" and "phê nổ bá bit tộ", neither of which sounded particularly appetizing. After they regaled fable upon tale of salvation from the seas (Neptune, as He were, was a harsh daemon in this land), they brought out the local minnek of pho. As it was "yôm a khẳ rợn", they were permitted to partake of the dish, which had been forbidden in the previous week as it contained rice. Local legende has it that Alexandre Dumas had been lost at sea, but once he reached shore on "yôm a khẳ rợn", he found a steaming bowl of pho that salved his life.
All praise to the Pho King, Dumas.
(Assuredly no obscenity here. You must be pronuncing it incorrectly.)
Returning to Eastern Wha, we were voyageuring cross Kiangsu-upon-Yangtze, whereupon we arrived upon a local disputation between two embearded fellows. The one in the white kappel was clutching closely to his bosom a copy of the alcoran, muttering Basmalat under his breath, whilst the one in the blue kappel spake softly, allowing his coterie of supportants to vocate his views. They bade him, "PULL", and thus he did, pulling various trinkets to his vicinity via yarn, and then they manded, "COMPARE", and he orated suavely upon the merits and dismerits of each artifact.
It would appear, as it seems, we had encountered a battle of wits between Rabbins and Mofteys.
As much as we desired not with the interference of local creedical polemica, one of the artifacts that the Rabbin pulled not was simply lying on the ground, catching our attention. It was a schätel of sorts, ruddy and banged, as thus.* An unseen force compulsed us to point at the object and cry out, "PULL!" Not being of his inner circule, the Rabbin simply ignored us, as was his right. But our sudden move had caught the attention of his fellow rabbinoids, they followed suit with a "PULL" of their own. Being one to listen to his comrades, he pulled the schätel to his side, upon which the excited cohorts cried, "COMPARE!" while we added our voices to the choros. And then the Rabbin proclaimed the superiority of said schätel, and left his opposer in media fabula whilst reciting alcoranic surae. Defeated, the Moftey wrapped his eyes in his turban and raised his hands palms outward, which is apparently the local expression for surrender among religious folks.
Having done our meddling, we trekked onward.
Alas, our sojourn across Asia Major would come to conclude, as the labours of fruit called for us to regress to mundanity. We parted, and returned to the locale of parnosseh (of many across the monde) in the Orkneys.
Upon arrival, it was indeed discovered to be that the beer had fermented in precisely thirty days.
Quenchful!
Not taking orders.
__
Tellingly,
Thirty Day Beer
Say, that photo may expire from its cache soon, so in your commenatrical ræsponsa (on which you will doubtless make a full post), I recommend you should download the photo and then upload it to the post, rather than just præsenting the link.
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